You awoke my mothering instinct.
It lay dormant for so many cycles of the moon waning,
the waves crashing on the quiet beach.
You looked up at me with eyes like painted glass,
perfectly framed by long, black lashes.
Your downturned lips told me of empty kisses
and darkly wrapped passions.
I murmured my barely reined lusty comforts,
my but who wouldn't want you.
Your sighs echoed in my chest, hollow.
No one else thinks so.
And I wanted nothing more than to be enough,
to mend your sorrow, lick your wounds,
cradle you in my barren arms
and show you the fine line between matron and beloved.
But it's all plutonic, you whisper.
Platonic, I answer, tracing my fingertips down your jagged spine,
That's a terrible phallusy.